


in the hope of open hands

by upheaval



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Relationship, i completely butchered sakusa's character i'm sorry, positive depictions of miya atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upheaval/pseuds/upheaval
Summary: What do you believe in?
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 5
Kudos: 72





	in the hope of open hands

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dog eat dog eat dog world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939390) by [perennials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials). 



> hi this is my first time writing sakusa like ever so chances are it's ooc but feel free to constructively criticize :D
> 
> title is from five by sleeping at last!!

At twenty-two, Sakusa Kiyoomi realizes that things are constantly happening.

At twenty-two, Sakusa Kiyoomi is an outside hitter on the MSBY Black Jackals, and he wears the number fifteen in bold white letters on his back, and that’s all he needs. Coincidentally, it is also all he knows. If he considers forces greater than metaphor, maybe there is more he knows; but if that ever crosses his mind, he looks the other way.

At twenty-two, Sakusa Kiyoomi lays in bed, skin scrubbed red and blankets tucked under his chin. Outside, it is raining, and Kiyoomi dislikes rain. It reminds him of his high school dormitory and its dirty hallways in the way that any other germy surface does, so he plugs his ears and ignores it. He hears thunder rumble, and Kiyoomi realizes he does not do well with ignoring things. He unplugs his ears, rolls over, stretches his wrist under the blankets.

Kiyoomi tries to fall asleep. He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t have the energy to replug his ears, so he leaves them on his nightstand.

* * *

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says one day after practice. His hair is damp, and he thinks his arm may smell like Bokuto’s spray deodorant.

“Yes, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu looks at Kiyoomi. The afternoon pours its bright, sunny guts onto Atsumu’s face, and Kiyoomi looks away.

“Stop calling me that, Miya.”

Atsumu kicks a pebble on the street. “No, I don’t think I will.” Kiyoomi does not disgrace himself by replying. He regrets saying anything. Atsumu kicks another pebble. “What,” he says.

“What,” Kiyoomi parrots.

Atsumu sniffles, or inhales loudly, and Kiyoomi doesn’t bother checking. “You said my name first.” Kiyoomi regrets twice-fold.

“Nothing.”

“I’m gonna trust you on that,” Atsumu says. He brushes his finger against his nose, and Kiyoomi suspects he didn’t wash it in the locker room.

After a moment in which the afternoon decided to stop pouring its guts on his face, Atsumu gives a detailed description of the pre-recorded game he watched last night at 1 AM. Kiyoomi doesn’t try to listen. He does anyway because the world is funny like that. Kiyoomi wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.

* * *

On one occasion, Kiyoomi found a piece of his nail that had split off from the main nail but was still stubbornly hanging on to his finger. He ripped it off with tweezers. It was clean, and there was no blood. He appreciated that. When his grandmother discovered what he did, she worried and told him to never do so again in fear that he would hurt himself.

Kiyoomi never understood why she did so. He was capable of knowing the risks he would take, and he did not need to be protected from them. Kiyoomi, by principle, did not need protection, and if anything, he would be the one protecting his grandmother. He wanted to tell her this, but he decided against it in fear of offending her.

* * *

Kiyoomi and his grandmother are not so different regarding the department of fear. Some would say it runs in the family, and Kiyoomi would agree. He is afraid of many things—germs, crowds, and regret, among others. His life has been a long process of getting over them.

* * *

Kiyoomi brushes his teeth for two minutes on good days and longer on bad days. He doesn’t know what differentiates good and bad days, but he thinks it could have something to do with the amount of time he spends without a mask. He would like to know if he is correct.

He has a timer in the form of an hourglass given to him by his dentist. It is plastic and blue, and the sand is blue too. When he brushes his teeth, he flips it over the moment his toothbrush enters his mouth. If timed incorrectly, he tries again. And again, if necessary. On bad days, Kiyoomi resets the timer over four times, each time more out of sync than the last, until he decides to forgo the hourglass and go by his instincts. On bad days, he brushes his teeth for a little over five minutes. His instincts tell him two have passed.

Today is a bad day if the blood in Kiyoomi’s toothpaste is any indication. His gums should not have bled. He flosses twice everyday just as his childhood dentist recommended him to, but maybe he just brushed too hard. He does that sometimes.

Kiyoomi looks at his reflection in the mirror. His eye bags are heavy, which he understands. He often finds himself awake in the early hours of the morning, helplessly watching the sun rise through the slivers between his window and the edges of his blinds. His bed is cold in the morning, and it is uncomfortable.

The mirror appears tired as well. Water stains dot the lower half because Kiyoomi abandoned them the night before, and the frame seems to be dusty. Kiyoomi sighs and wipes the mirror. The stains do not disappear. He wets his rag and tries again, and it works this time. Kiyoomi looks at himself again. He returns the hourglass to its corner. Perhaps he should get a new one sometime.

* * *

“Why volleyball?” Atsumu once asked Kiyoomi. The reality of it is simple, but Kiyoomi thinks the real reason has changed forms many times before reaching its current state. When Kiyoomi didn’t answer, Atsumu asked again, “Why volleyball?”

Kiyoomi furrowed his eyebrows. He tried to search for a description of the creature who loomed over his head and handed him a volleyball and told him to play. It used to look like Komori, but Kiyoomi thought it might not look like anything anymore. “Why not?” he replied simply. Because it _was_ simple. That was the conclusion Kiyoomi came to.

Atsumu nodded, saying nothing further. Kiyoomi was glad. He wouldn’t be able to come up with a better reason.

* * *

In his dreams, Kiyoomi sees Inarizaki’s banner. He looks at it and nods to himself and looks to his left and finds Atsumu doing the same thing. Kiyoomi knows because it’s his dream. Atsumu is the same, except he’s different, because he is four centimeters shorter, and his hair hasn’t been drowned in styling gel. His shirt reads ‘1’ with the underline, and Kiyoomi realizes his reads the same. He looks back at the banner, then to his side. Atsumu is twenty-three again. He doesn’t need memories.

Kiyoomi startles awake and tries to forget that Atsumu was in his dream, like a junior-high schooler trying to reconcile with the fact that they failed a test. Contrarily, Kiyoomi didn’t fail tests in junior high. He usually got in the 90s range, and when he didn’t, he never got below 87. This comforts him for a moment until he remembers his dream again. He distracts himself with the task of finding the earplug that fell out of his ear. It works until it doesn’t, when both earplugs are in Kiyoomi’s ears, and he is lying still, blankets tucked under his chin.

He fails to fall asleep, and this time, he doesn’t try again. Outside, Kiyoomi thinks he sees lightning. Perhaps it’s monsoon season, but he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t keep up with the weather; his job is indoors.

Outside, it is raining again. Kiyoomi dislikes the rain, so he shoves his earplugs back in his ears. They must be very dirty.

Kiyoomi replaces them with a new pair.

* * *

Atsumu is to Kiyoomi the type of person whose parallel universe dopplegänger is a creature with too many eyes and limbs bent the wrong way. This is the nature of someone whose determination is equivalent to that of an early teenager who becomes president of a club, and it is egregious.

Atsumu is in his kitchen. This is also egregious, and Kiyoomi doesn’t like admitting it. The clock on the oven flashes green with something that looks like 3:10 AM, and Kiyoomi has to squint to see it through the darkness.

“Your hair looks like piss,” Kiyoomi notes instead of telling Atsumu to leave.

Said piss-haired man scoffs. “You can’t even see it right now.”

“Okay. Why are you here.”

“Why are you awake?”

Kiyoomi digs his thumb into his other palm. “I asked first.”

“Why not?”

“Was that the answer?” Kiyoomi looks at Atsumu in the dark. He barely distinguishes the outline of Atsumu’s body from the cabinets behind him, but something tells him Atsumu is looking back at him. “Because it sucks.”

“Too bad. It’s your turn,” Atsumu says. “Doesn’t have to be good either.”

“Because I was.” Because I couldn’t sleep, Kiyoomi doesn’t say. Many of his thoughts are of the same category, and he is complacent with their cowardice. It shouldn’t be embarrassing. Kiyoomi finds himself embarrassed nonetheless.

Atsumu nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t ask more. Kiyoomi thanks him for it, and Atsumu looks surprised. He should not be surprised. Kiyoomi does weird things at 3 AM, like letting Atsumu into his apartment.

Kiyoomi is left wondering why Atsumu came to his apartment at three in the morning. He doesn’t bring it up, and the mug on the counter looks at Kiyoomi questioningly. Kiyoomi doesn’t look back at it. Instead, he looks at Atsumu who does not have too many eyes and limbs bent the wrong way. He says nothing still, which is weird. But also, he is Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi does not understand his many tendencies.

That’s okay; Kiyoomi doesn’t need to know. He could even go as far as to say he doesn’t care. But he doesn’t. That’s okay too.

From the other side of the kitchen, Atsumu asks, “Do you have water?”

“No,” says Kiyoomi as he fumbles through the refrigerator to find a water bottle. Wordlessly, the water bottle exchanges hands.

“Thanks,” Atsumu says, and it may be the first time Kiyoomi has ever heard him thank anyone, but this is debatable. “I owe ya.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow. “No, you don’t. It’s water.”

“I’m in your apartment. At three in the morning,” Atsumu says. “Your apartment, Omi-Omi.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Don’t call me that. I can kick you out if I want.”

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu repeats, and Kiyoomi doesn’t punch him. Kiyoomi doesn’t do anything. “Huh.”

Kiyoomi gives him a look of exasperation. “What.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The clock on the oven now reads something like 3:40 AM. Or maybe Kiyoomi is seeing things. If he isn’t, the passage of time is committing a grave case of fuckery. “Don’t call me that. Go back and sleep. We have practice tomorrow,” Kiyoomi instructs, effectively becoming a hypocrite.

“Aw, you care about me?” Atsumu asks, like an elementary schooler newly acquainted with the concept of crushes.

“No. Shut the fuck up,” Kiyoomi says. Contrary to his words, he _might_ care, except he would rather die than admit it. Death before dishonor.

Atsumu snickers. “I think that’s a yes, Omi-kun.”

“Go sleep, asshole,” says Kiyoomi with no bite. “Don’t call me that either.”

Atsumu nods, tapping twice on the counter in acknowledgment. “I’m going, Omi-Omi,” he replies. “You should sleep too.”

Kiyoomi makes a noise of understanding. He doesn’t say anything as Atsumu walks out of his apartment, and when the door shuts behind him, and when he stops hearing Atsumu’s footsteps. Kiyoomi does not care. He doesn’t, he thinks, as he stands in the kitchen for ten more minutes. He doesn’t.

* * *

“Why volleyball?” Atsumu asks again, lying down and staring at the ceiling of some hotel room in Hiroshima.

Kiyoomi thinks for a moment. Between the two times Atsumu has asked, Kiyoomi has seen his motivation and looked it in the eye. He, too, asked it, “Why volleyball?”, and it nodded. That’s okay. Kiyoomi understood it as it understood him, so he nodded back.

“There’s nothing else,” Kiyoomi says. This is something he believes Atsumu understands as well.

Atsumu nods. “Hey,” he says after a pause.

Kiyoomi glares at him. “What,” he says. He does not want to know what. He glares harder.

Atsumu sits up. “Ask me why volleyball.”

“Why? Do you have some kind of amazing earth-shattering response?”

“Maybe. Or not. Just ask.”

Kiyoomi sighs. “Why volleyball,” he acquiesces, barely a question.

“It makes me happy,” Atsumu replies like it’s not the most basic answer to any question that starts with ‘why,’ but Kiyoomi knows he means it.

He gives Atsumu a look. “Really,” he says.

Atsumu nods, face bright with something close to joy. Kiyoomi purses his lips, getting up to brush his teeth. There are no other noises in the room. Atsumu does not try to create more, and this is a good thing.

Kiyoomi flips his hourglass and inserts his toothbrush into his mouth at the same time. Good.

* * *

“You are…” Atsumu, drunk, begins on a Saturday night after an izakaya outing. Kiyoomi stands behind him as he sits on the curb outside their apartment complex, hands shoved in his pockets and mask pulled high on his face. “What are you afraid of?”

Kiyoomi stares straight ahead. There is no pretty answer to this question, and he would be the first to admit it. Sometimes, Kiyoomi wonders if it is possible to know yourself too well. “Does it matter?”

Atsumu laughs under his breath. To a passerby, he is exhaling loudly through his mouth. “No. But I’m curious.”

Kiyoomi figures that Atsumu is always curious. Atsumu loves the world and wants to learn more about it, and Kiyoomi would be the same under different circumstances. “I’m afraid of a lot of things,” he ends up saying.

“Didn’t think you’d actually admit it.” Atsumu laughs louder and lays back on the concrete, hands on his forehead. 

“Get up. Sidewalks are disgusting.”

“The stars are pretty, though.”

Kiyoomi looks for himself. There are approximately two stars, and one of them upon closer inspection is an airplane. He lets Atsumu be. 

“I wonder if there’s someone out there who isn't afraid of anything. Like, they’re not bluffing when they say it,” Atsumu continues. “I wish that was me. Say, Omi-Omi, wouldn’t life be so much easier?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything. He is not enlightened enough to know how to respond, so he nods.

In theory, fear is human and inseparable from life, but also in theory, Kiyoomi used to think Atsumu was fearless. There was nothing he wouldn’t do back in high school, where life was schoolwork and volleyball and all other necessities. Kiyoomi would admire him for it if it didn’t come back to bite him every time. At twenty-three, Atsumu seems to be afraid of something after all. In a parallel universe, he, with too many eyes and limbs bent the wrong way, would not develop fear. And in a parallel universe, Kiyoomi, with his extra large truckload of fear, would worship him for it.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi decides finally, “I guess it would.”

* * *

Picture this: in the parallel universe, Kiyoomi does not play volleyball because he is afraid. To fill its place, he becomes a journalist for the high school newspaper club. He wears glasses. He wears face masks. He wears gloves everywhere despite being familiar with the concept of cross-contamination. This is his life. He is not satisfied. He doesn’t do anything about it.

In contrast, Atsumu is the opposite. Atsumu, with his long-established too many eyes and limbs bent the wrong way, plays volleyball. He is good, perhaps, even better than Atsumu in this universe. He is fearless. 

They do not meet, but Kiyoomi will see a picture of Atsumu on the news. He will see Atsumu’s eyes and limbs and the way he plays, and he will gape. He will be amazed. He will regret not playing volleyball. He will not start playing volleyball. He will still be a journalist. He will be safe, but unhappy. He will not do anything about it.

Now picture this universe. Kiyoomi has fears. Kiyoomi plays volleyball and more volleyball. This is good. He is happy. It’s not perfect, but it is good. Kiyoomi is fine with good. He is happy.

* * *

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says. The sun is out, and the world is kind to them today. An airplane flies above them, and Kiyoomi looks up at it, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

“Yes, Omi?” Atsumu’s hands are jammed in his pockets. He looks at the airplane too.

“What do you believe in?”

Atsumu laughs, kicking a pebble. “Myself, I think. That’d be good.”

Kiyoomi smiles, if only slightly, and looks at him. “Yeah. It would.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this was heavily and i mean Heavily inspired by [dog eat dog eat dog world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22939390) by perennials to the point where writing this felt kind of like plagiarising but alas we are out here.
> 
> writing this piece fucked me up in that i cried twice and made one mind map trying to understand sakusa's personality and then 394 happened and then i didn't understand it until i searched hq 394 on twitter and read all the threads so that also happened.
> 
> anyway if you wanna scream at/with me here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/ylzgf)


End file.
